


Of Laundry Bins and Cold Beers

by abigailmaedy



Series: The Snags [5]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, LONG before they were dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 07:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7608511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abigailmaedy/pseuds/abigailmaedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jake and Amy didn't start out as anything but colleagues, and she was even reluctant to admit that she enjoyed THAT, let alone the idea of a friendship with the unprofessional detective. But, when she screws up on a case, Jake invites her over for a beer and she's surprised to catch herself letting him be the first person to watch her hit a wall. He's a much more supportive person than he had originally made himself out to be, and she thinks this might just be a reasonable friendship after all. Rated Mature for alcohol purposes. </p><p>Okay, so I know I said I was done with this series but my brain had other ideas so I'm just going to keep adding to it until I'm old, maybe. Who knows? I hope you guys enjoy. As always, criticism is welcome, and if you're still waiting on an update for Before the Badge, consider this a little abigailmaedy hiatus gift from my dumb insomniac brain to you. The BTB piece is coming, and it is a Gina POV piece. hard for me to write, and a bit odd. Stay tuned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Laundry Bins and Cold Beers

            Amy was not a gentle spirit, and she didn’t float through life with ease; Amy was competitive, anxious both by nature and nurture, and relentlessly hard on herself. After facing assault at seventeen and spending the years that followed working to teach herself that what happened wasn’t her fault, Amy developed another trait- boldness. It wasn’t found in the way she spoke, which was often broken and always with just a little bit of uncertainty. And, it wasn’t found in the way that she loved, with eyes in the back of her head and an exit route always in sight. No, Amy’s boldness came in the way she fought to fix herself whether anyone else was there to do it for her, or not. 

            Of course, there had been moments where she bit the bullet, and the bravest thing she could do was admit she wasn’t up to a challenge. Telling her captains (first McGintley, and then Holt) that she wasn’t ready for high-profile assault cases was, she knew, a smudge on the reputation she wanted to build for herself, where she would be seen as the detective who could take on anything. But, first she had to develop the skills to separate her memories from the task in front of her, and she just  _ couldn’t do it.  _ Not yet. 

            Nobody in her family knew what had happened to her, about the party her brother had thrown while she was in high school that, for her, had ended in her rape at the hands of one of her brother’s closest friends. So, she’d decided it was best nobody knew about the nightmares she had, where she would wake up crying, or shaking, or silent and frozen as she collected herself and confirmed that she really was alone in bed. Nobody knew about the panic attacks that frequented her seemingly put-together lifestyle, or that the best thing Amy was able to do for herself after she moved out and went to college was to start seeing a therapist who taught her that she was capable of mending herself. And, when she discovered that her therapist was right, that was when she became  _ bold.  _ She certainly never liked failure or adversity, and probably never would, but at least with time and privacy, she could cope. That was all she ever needed or wanted- time, and privacy. 

            Then she met Jake. He was her first partner at the nine-nine, and he was an asshole. He was never on time in the morning, his reports were the most atrocious things Amy had ever laid eyes on (and she worked  _ murder cases) _ , and he was unprofessional to such a degree that she felt it had to be to spite her. But, the worst part was, he was an amazing detective. He was smart, his brain worked through everything like it was a puzzle with all available pieces, and he never relented when a case was in the works. She couldn’t bring herself to request somebody new when she was learning so much from him, so she compromised never to tell him what an influence he was (no way was she going to inflate that ego). 

            The partnership was strictly professional… At first. Albeit friendly and competitive, Jake and Amy never hung out off-shift, or shared too many personal anecdotes (which suited both of their trust issues), and she certainly never told him about how horrible some days could be for her. Amy definitely didn’t disclose that she had more severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder than anyone realized and that a panic attack for her was often preceded by several hours of either personal grooming and cleaning, or the cleaning and reorganization of her surroundings without anyway of stopping herself. Sometimes, after a stressful case came to a bitter end or she had gone enough nights without good sleep, she would arrive home and find a dish in the sink. She would wash it, and dry it, and put it away. And then she would resolve to scrub the entire sink, the countertops, the stove, the oven, the floors, and every surface she could. She would clean the bathroom to a sparkle, mop, reorganize all of her photographs and DVD’s, and eventually, when the entire house was spotless, she would start over, cleaning what didn’t need to be cleaned, or break down in a sweat and nearly, nearly fail to catch her breath. She would take a shower until the water ran cold, brush her teeth until her gums bled, and toss around in bed until she found  _ just  _ the right spot at  _ just  _ the right temperature. But, she never disclosed that to anyone. It was with boldness that she would call her therapist, say, “It happened again,” and then write her thoughts down and force herself to recognize her poisonous behavior. She never disclosed her bad days, and so had never been given positive feedback for how they grew increasingly infrequent. The only person she had to be proud of her was herself. 

            Except, six months into working together, after Amy had failed to pull her gun on a perp with his own aimed at her, and had let him get away in the process, she stopped being alone in her failures, and so also her triumphs. She was kicking the side of a building, yelling angrily, lip busted open from where the bastard had clipped her with an elbow when he barreled into her (at least he had the intelligence not to murder her), when Jake rounded the corner, out of breath. “He got away!” was all she’d shouted over the radio before growling in frustration and taking her anger out on the wall. 

            “Amy, okay, woah. Stop.” Jake grabbed her by the shoulders. “This is police  _ brutality  _ and the building deserves better!” He shouted sarcastically, face a soft smile. “Seriously, though, chill. We’re gonna get him. We’ll put out an APB.” Jake scrunched his nose and pointed at his lip. “You gonna want the hospital for that?” He asked. 

            She shook her head, eyes at her feet. “Three weeks of work and I let him get away.” 

            He said, raising a brow. “Froze on pulling your gun, right?” 

            Amy shot him a glance, the taste of metal suddenly filling her mouth as blood seeped in between her lips. 

            “Yeah.” He grinned, slinging an arm over her shoulders and guiding her towards where they’d parked. “I’ve been there. You’ll learn.” 

            Amy noted a loose piece of string on Jake’s jacket and had to shove her hands behind her back to keep from picking at it. She started to note a lot of things that were out of place, in fact, as they got closer to the car.

_____________________________________

            Jake was slightly less of an asshole that evening as they wrapped up at the precinct, and with her car in the shop, he insisted on driving her home and then completely floored her by going to his apartment instead. “Come on in. We’re having a beer.” He said, parking and on his way to the front of the building before she could protest. With a sigh, she climbed out and followed suit. 

            “I have to go home later though. I have to take a shower.” She grumbled, rolling her eyes as he waved her off.

            She had never been so grateful for elevators before and leaned against the wall their entire ride up, pushing off with an  _ oof  _ when they reached his floor, following Jake down the hall and into his apartment, where she realized immediately that she was absolutely fucked. “It’s, uh, a little messy.” Jake muttered, stepping over a pile of laundry and making for the kitchen. “Beer or wine?” he called. 

            “Uh, how about bleach?” She called back, reaching for the laundry pile before she could stop herself and tossing it onto another pile six feet to its right. Jake chuckled from the kitchen and she continued to grab his clothes and pile them up until there was a serious mound of laundry in the middle of the floor. She spotted a piece of trash, and then another, and repeated the process until there was a pile of garbage. And then, she found mail, and she piled all of that together, too, and put it on his couch. She piled dishes onto his coffee table and didn’t stop until Jake startled her. 

            “Wow.” He said from behind her, smirking as she jumped and spun around to face him. He handed her a beer and she smiled, taking a gulp and sighing at the cold bottle on her lip. “I should bring you over more often.” He grinned, looking around the living room. “Man, piles are a great idea. Look how much better it looks in here. You know,” he laughed, “without all the tripping hazards.”

            Amy smiled sheepishly, her hands shaking slightly. She gripped the bottle tighter. “Do you have a trashcan?” She asked. 

            Jake watched her from the couch, insisting every few minutes that she didn’t have to keep cleaning, that he brought her over to cool off and she was allowed to do that. She would pause, smile at him, take a sip of her beer, and then turn back to the mess with a quiet apology. She could see Jake's furrowed brows from the corner of her eye.  _ Stop it, stop it! You’re being a freak!  _ Her nerves were buzzing and she couldn’t bring herself to just agree to his offer and stop. She had to keep going, and she hated it. She tried to avoid eye contact with him as much as possible and he didn’t follow her when she made her way to his kitchen, an armful of dishes en route with her. She did all of the dishes, she scrubbed the counters, she threw out the leftovers that all seemed to be weeks old, and had a sizable pile of full trashbags forming when Jake came up behind her in the bathroom, the third room she’d promised herself would be her last, and grabbed her shoulders for the second time that night. “Ames.” He tried, the nickname seeming to stick. She halted mid-stride and didn’t turn to face him. Her hands were vibrating.  _ Stop shaking, stop! Stop!  _ “Can you control yourself? Or do you have to keep going?” He asked. 

            Amy hesitated, staring at her hands, which were drying out from the chemicals she’d used to clean his kitchen. Her nails were jagged from grazing the counter as she scrubbed. She shook her head. “I can’t stop.” She whispered. 

            “Can I tell you a story?” He asked, pulling her down until they were both sitting, legs crossed, on the bathroom floor. They leaned against his claw-foot tub, which for some reason was full of mail. 

            She nodded.  _ What? I’m mindlessly cleaning your house and you want to tell me a story?  _

            “Don’t tell anyone I told you. Not even Charles knows.” He said with a smirk.

            “I won’t say anything. I promise.” She stared at him and he nodded. 

            “When I was seven, my dad skipped out on us. He told me to meet him at this pizza place a few blocks from our house and he never showed up, and I had to walk home in the dark. I waited for hours before I even realized he wasn’t coming.” Jake’s eyes were locked on Amy’s and her heartbeat sounded in her ears. “When I got home, all of his stuff was gone, and my mom was working. So I was sitting at the house, waiting for her, and drool and boogers were just pouring down my face. I was sobbing, you know?” He made a motion with his hands and smirked. “I thought it was my fault that he left, and I started to get really scared that  _ everyone  _ would leave. So a little while after, I started showing up to things late, just in case. That way, if they weren’t there, I would be able to see without waiting around.” Jake tugged absentmindedly on the badge that still hung from his neck. “At one point, it was a choice I was making. But then, if I was on time to something, or if I was  _ early _ , I just couldn’t go in. The closer I would get, the more I felt like puking. So I just let myself be late for everything. And I kinda hate it.” He shrugged. “I know it sucks to always walk in late, and I know people think I’m a loser for it. But, it’s not even that I woke up late or I showered too long. Usually, I’m just waiting right outside the precinct and I can’t go in until I know for sure Serge will be inside to yell at me about it.” Amy’s hands had stopped shaking, but her mind was stilled being tugged by her environment. “Anyway, my point is, I don’t think you’re too weird or anything. If this is what you need to do to break down, be my guest. I’m not gonna stop you unless you want me to. I’m just gonna put on a movie, and you can clean, or drink, or cry, or whatever you need to do, and it’s okay. Just… Tell me when you want to stop. And I’ll drive you home later.” He got up before she could answer him and she just watched him go, her mouth hanging open. And then, from the corner of her eye, she caught a little ball of tissue on the floor, picked it up, and through it in the trash. And kept going. 

            Amy had to push through some serious guilt to go into Jake’s room, but once she just let her body take over, it was go-time. She made his bed, miraculously found a stack of empty laundry baskets, and got the room clean faster than she’d been able to do the others. She meandered into the living room and took the laundry away pile-by-pile, making finishing touches throughout the house and stopping every once in awhile for a sip of her now-room temperature beer. She was thirsty, but was afraid that opening the cupboards would start a brand new dusting journey. So, instead, she went into the kitchen, which was beautiful, and turned on the faucet. She drank from her nearly cracking hands and a splash of water hit the counter.

            She grabbed a rag, and wiped it down. She looked around, and decided it wouldn’t hurt to give the whole kitchen a wipe-down. She opened the fridge to double-check that she’d cleaned it well enough, and spotted a speck of a stain that she’d missed. She started to empty it for the second time.  _ Oh, no. No, no, no.  _ She grabbed the sponge with shaky hands, her knuckles hurting now. She scrubbed at the drawers and the walls until everything was sparkling  _ again _ , and put all of the food back. Then she organized it all by food pyramid. Then by expiration date. Then by color.

_             No, no, no! Amy, it’s done! Everything is good, you can stop!  _ She shut the fridge and dropped to her knees, checking the floor for spots and sighing when she didn’t find any. God, she was still so thirsty. Her legs hurt, her back hurt, her hands hurt, and her throat was dry. With a grunt, Amy tossed the sponge into the sink and backed up, hard, into a cupboard. She heard Jake shift on the couch and pressed her hands to her head, closing her eyes and taking shallow breaths.  _ Just stop, just stop, just stop.  _

            She remembered the mail in the bathtub, how she’d organized it by sender, and thought about how she could have done it by stamp type instead. She hadn’t even brought it to the kitchen table. “Jake?” She called. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, breaths short.  _ You’re not gonna have a panic attack in front of Jake Peralta. You’re not.  _

            “Sup?” He called back. She didn’t respond, tucking her knees to her chin and then shifting to sitting on her heels when she started to feel like if she wasn’t in tripod, she wouldn’t breathe at all. 

            “I have to stop.” She squeaked, voice barely above a whisper. She was fairly certain her lungs were collapsing and the next breath she took wasn’t a breath at all. She gasped.  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck.  _ Was it just her, or was the air thick? Was it just her, or was she neck deep in water? 

            Jake’s footsteps were like nearing thunder claps and she couldn’t bare to open her eyes. Her hands were shaking again, everything thick and detached. She took another non-breath, a fatal wheeze. Peralta knelt down in front of her. “Remember that seminar you took?” His voice was suddenly at her ears and her nose scrunched. 

            “I can’t breathe.” She whispered. She tried, she really did, but only wheezed again. 

            “Santiago. You took a seminar on panicking civilians.” He grabbed her hands, which were gripping her knees, and squeezed. “And you came back and you tried to bore me to death with it. It was like our second week working together.” He squeezed her hands again. “They taught you about all of these breathing exercises. Like, uh.” Jake racked his brain. “The seven-eight thing. Breathe in for seven seconds, out for eight. Do it, Amy.” He took a, deep, loud breath, and she did her best to mimic it, but that water she could swear she was drowning in had reached her ears. “Okay, good try, now eight out.” And she followed him, breathing out for eight wheezy seconds. “Yeah, awesome. God, I should really take a seminar. Okay, seven in.” She copied him again, this time the wheezing substituted in for a crackled breath. “Eight out.” He said, and she opened her eyes to find that his bore into her. They were big, and although she’d always thought of that look in them as mischief, she realized it might actually just be the look a child has until he can’t hold onto it anymore, like he’s just trying his best to love everything. He grinned at her. “Seven in.” She took a real breath that time, and her shoulders relaxed. She pulled her sweaty palms from his hands and wiped them on her pants. “Eight out.” He said. She smiled, her lungs taking over for themselves. “You good?” He asked, “Not gonna croak in my kitchen? Cuz if I were a detective I’d call that death suspicious with how spiffy this place looks.” 

            Amy couldn’t help but laugh, a sort of shy, breathless thing, and Jake patted her on the back. “So, this whole thing,” He motioned around his spotless apartment. “Is a wind-up, right?”

            She nodded. “It used to be all the time, but it hasn’t happened since I transferred.” She said, breaking her gaze to the floor and then forcing herself to look back at him. “I started going to therapy in college and back then it was at least every week. So, I know it seems  _ crazy- _ ”

            “It’s a big improvement, though. That’s awesome, Santiago.” His grin widening as he stood and pulled her up with him, clapping him on the back. 

            “So…” She started, biting her lip and wincing as her teeth hit the cut she’d forgotten about. “Is… I mean, can we never mention this, like ever again?” 

            “Oh, pfft.” Jake scoffed. “I won’t mention it if you don’t mention the thing about my dad.” 

            Amy smiled softly. “I’m sorry about that, by the way. I never realized you were already out there when I arrived.” 

            “Oh, god. No, you’re crazy early. I’m not there before you come inside. I’m ten minutes early, not thirty.” He laughed and she rolled her eyes. “Hey, how about this. If you’re having a tough day, come over.” 

            “And if you’re struggling to come inside, I’ll come drag you in?” She raised a brow and he smirked. 

            “Yeah, I think that’s fair.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, reader!  
> I know I usually talk about my piece or about my writing style in the end notes, but today I just want to check in with you as a reader. How are you doing? Did you brush your teeth yet today? When was the last time you had a drink of water, or a bite to eat? Have you been outside? You woke up, so that's a plus! Make sure to show yourself a little bit of love, and if you're planning on making a comment, add how you're doing (if you feel like it)! I care about my readers and I appreciate their time, and from person to person, from B99 fan to B99 fan, I hope all is well.
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, don't be afraid to point out continuity, grammar, and spelling errors! Thanks!


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